Guiding Instinct
by Leviathian
Summary: Ran and Shaw entrusted the last of their species to Iroh, and Iroh to Zuko. Who became, abruptly, very, very invested in the survival of dragons. (Rating may change)
1. Chapter 1

The avatar had escaped, half their men were showing signs of hypothermia, and Zuko was never meant to _know._

Iroh had hoped he wouldn't have to tell him. At least not now, not when the time wasn't right. The world wasn't stable enough to accept the truth yet. _Zuko_ wasn't stable enough to accept the truth yet— it was too risky. He wasn't yet open to enough of the world's truths. If Zuko couldn't yet look past his father's rule to brand and banish _himself,_ how could he hope to extend sympathy further?

Iroh couldn't hinge the survival of dragons on his single, wayward nephew.

(Not yet.)

So few dragons were left in the world. Ran and Shaw, his two masters. The bones scattered, at the bottom of the sea or between layers of limestone. The ashes still imbedded in the soil, somewhere. Old gouge marks, old charred bits of earth. Scaled armor, becoming dusty in a hidden crevice of a veteran old enough to keep hiding.

The eggs now resting, superheated and far too _fragile_ still, cradled between Zuko's frozen hands.

"Uncle...?"

The world had never made anything easy. But for once, Iroh wished the spirits were just the _slightest_ bit more gentle on him. Deceptively relaxed, he smiled calmly at his prince. "Yes, nephew?" It wasn't working, but not for the reasons Iroh expected. Zuko didn't even seem to note his tone. Nor his posture. His nephew's entire focus was hyper fixated, it seemed, on the precious cargo Iroh had carefully sectioned away within the Wani.

_Please don't take this the wrong way. Not when those lives are in your hands_. He may have hidden them, from his nephew. He may have hidden them from Ozai, and Azula, and the entire fire nation— but he could not keep hiding this from Zuko, not on their one, _tiny_ ship—

Zuko slowly looked up at him. His face was blown open and vulnerable. The gold of his eyes were barely a thin, almost glowing ring around his engorged pupils. "They're— they're _alive,_ Uncle."

The egg pulsed in Zuko's hands. Iroh could see it. He could _feel_ it, when the air surrounding it wavered with heat. The crackling, hardened magma eggshell seemed to flare hotter with every second Zuko held it. His nephew couldn't seem able to stop himself from pulling it closer and closer to himself. Until the egg was tucked under his shin, his entire body curling around it protectively.

(If he wasn't so focused on Zuko, he might have noted how it seemed to react to his nephew's touch.)

Iroh barely even heard his nephew's words. His face alone, even his scarred eye stretched as wide as it still could, was near feverishly bright with almost awed recognition. "They're alive," he whispered again. Iroh blinked as he dropped to the ground, the egg still delicately held in his cupped hands. Zuko was infinitely, confusingly gentle. Gentle in a way he hadn't managed to see again, not since Ursa vanished from the palace.

(A way he had missed. Back when Lu Ten was alive, Zuko's face was unmarred, the fountains full of life, and Ursa's smile still radiated around every corner. When they had a resemblance of something _happy.) _

Zuko brushed shaking fingers against the ragged top of the egg with a transfixed expression. "...They're so _young." _

"They're not even hatchlings," Iroh admitted. He was, for the first time, not sure where to start. Maybe it should have been less of a surprise than it was, but he was honestly taken aback by how _strongly_ the sight of the eggs made Zuko react. As if the moment he had touched them, something unnamed and inexhaustible had snapped into place in his head. "...what are you doing, nephew?"

Zuko's head snapped up. For a long moment his nephew looked shocked. As if he had only just noticed Iroh was still there. "I—" the egg hissed with heat and Zuko's hands snapped away from it, the boy avoiding Iroh's eyes as he wiped sweat off onto his pants in a frantic motion. "I— They're— I wasn't, I didn't mean to find them. I didn't know, I swear on my honor–"

Iroh breathed in deeply. It was only meant to stifle the sudden stir of embers in his chest, flaring brightly white-hot at the stutter of insecurity still, even three years later, in his nephew's voice. (Zuko still caught it, as he always did. Iroh cursed himself when he went quiet, and _still,_ and hoped it didn't show on his face.) _All that silence, and you settle for that_? Iroh raised an eyebrow.

Carefully, slowly, with the same, inner caution to avoid startling a cornered cat-owl, he relaxed his own stance. Zuko didn't look ready to do more than hold the egg at most. None of that frenzied anger and boundless, stubborn frustration. He was almost uncomfortably _adoring_ every time his eyes inevitably latched back onto the egg in his lap. As if he just couldn't help himself, like a thirsty man seeing the ocean. "I'm sure you weren't," he agreed.

Zuko didn't quite _tense_, when Iroh slowly sat himself down beside him, but his shoulders _hunched._ His entire body, almost invisible to Iroh's trained eye, curled, near imperceivable, around the egg. Iroh did not comment on it. "Do you know what they are, Zuko?"

"Yes," Zuko replied immediately. It rushed out of him like a hiss of steam between broken pipes, sudden and heated. Like the knowledge had always been there. (Which was impossible, of course, Iroh was well aware of how dragons were taught of now, especially within his family; and yet–) He seemed to pause for a moment as if his own vehemence startled him before continuing. "Dragons." His head ducked. Just barely, just to slide his eyes out of Iroh's sight. "They're dragons, aren't they." It wasn't a question. At that point Iroh didn't expect one.

_They aren't dead,_ he didn't accuse.

_You hid them from me,_ he didn't accuse.

_You're a liar and traitor, _he didn't accuse.

"Are there– are there _more?"_ Zuko asked quietly. His fingers pressed, just a little, until the edges of his nails were sickly pale and pressed white. "Uncle? Are there more, how many do you have, do you think we–" his voice cracked, words stifled as if the thought was treason itself. A dirty secret, in the dark—

Iroh took a startled step closer, mind racing, only to freeze at the way Zuko physically twitched. A clear jerk response, one Iroh worked to instill in his nephew. One meant to force his body out of the way of _danger_ if his mind couldn't catch up in time. One he taught, one his nephew had just nearly used towards _him, _no, to _get away from him–_ "No," He managed. "There aren't any more." Zuko did not move away, but Iroh did not come closer. He wasn't interested in finding out if the closest thing he had to a son was going to _flinch_ away from him again.

Iroh fell silent. For once, a proverb didn't seem the right course of action. Not now, not when his nephew was showing a startling affinity he had never expected; _for_ something he never expected.

(His Zuko had never shown the same sort of hot headed, scaled divinity the royal family harbored behind closed doors. The bark without the bite. No words followed with a lashing tongue of fire, no press of scaled skin. If his shoulder blades ever itched, Iroh had never seen his nephew reach to scratch. No unexplained toothaches, no aversion to shoes. Even Azula still flexed her fingers as if stretching her claws for a kill. Prodigy or not, even she could not fake having grown out of the growing pains just yet.)

"Why are they _here,"_ Zuko snapped, suddenly, curling further around the egg. His temperature rose dramatically enough for Iroh to not need to feel the sudden rolling heat himself, with how the eggs glowed. Steam hissed out the corners of Zuko's lips, only managing to further accent his frown. Iroh chanced another step forward, eyes widening as the dark, charcoaled eggshell cracked. A thin hairline of molten gold, trailing down from where Zuko's fingers still pressed searing hot and steaming against it. Zuko didn't even notice this time. He wasn't noticing the cracks either, even as more and more set the shell aglow. "We're— I'm _banished_, Uncle, they need _heat!_ They need the _sun, _and _we're still in—!"_

Iroh laid a hand on Zuko's wrist, tugging gently. Just enough that his nephew stilled instead of snapped. "_Nephew,"_ he said carefully, "let the egg go." He got a _look_ for it. One he was plenty used to already; a lovely, familiar mix of _Are-you-joking_ and _absolutely-not_ that in any other circumstance would have been funny if not for the way the egg seemed to _melt_ a little under Zuko's subconscious bending— _(A dragon's instinct can rival any human choice,_ he recalled, vaguely. _With physical forms more spiritual than most, able to connect with a touch, to share, to influence–)_ "Zuko," he said more urgently, "_stop!" _

Maybe it was his tone, or the look on his face, or something else entirely— but Zuko put the egg down as if it had burnt him.

(Or, more likely, with the stricken look on his face– as if _he_ had burnt _it.) _

"It started _singing,"_ he gasped. Iroh could see his fingers twitch. An aborted little reach, back towards the still smoldering egg. "They want to hatch."

Zuko was not a dragon. But he was not a dragon in the same way that Ursa was not a dragon, that Azula was not a dragon, that Iroh nor Ozai nor Azulon was a dragon. (_A dragon's instinct, their connection, can be strong enough to last through most material boundaries.)_

Gold, gold eyes turned his way, and Iroh wondered if age was beginning to render him blind.

Zuko breathed out, slowly, without even having to be reminded. Iroh felt a flicker of pride through the panic. His nephew really was such a level-headed boy, when he reminded himself to settle. "We can't hatch them here," He did not ask.

"No," Iroh agreed, solemn and serious, "We can't."

_It really is terrible timing. _

The eggs would be fine, of course. Even in the South Pole, the heat they gave off was untouched. Still nearly as intense as the day Ran and Shaw themselves had placed them into his arms. Like bits of eternal, inextinguishable fire. Pieces of the sun itself encapsulated in a thick shell like cooled magma. The world would sooner be burned than manage to cool them enough to kill. It was meant to be a safety mechanism, incubating the eggs in a state of stasis until the weather peaked enough for them to crack and melt open.

Iroh wasn't surprised what had worked for the dragons, for centuries, managed to backfire with his nephew. Three years was a long run, for Zuko not to have noticed.

(Iroh carefully did not think every time Zuko used to stray too close to his room, in the middle of the night– clearly driven awake by terror and still shaking with a cold sweat. But every time, without fail, it had been Iroh that would need to chase after him– because Zuko would reach his door, would hesitate, would shake his head as if to dismiss a voice in his head, a feeling, a thought–)

(Zuko had resolutely started avoiding Iroh's room after a few weeks. Iroh chose never to ask. Whatever had caused Zuko's aversion worked in his favor, even if it meant he had to work increasingly harder to find him in whatever dark crevice he tucked himself into.)

At least back in the Fire Nation, the extra aura of heat they gave off naturally was nigh unnoticeable when mixed with the usual weather. But there, in the poles— and with the stress already dense like a physical entity, wrapped choking and tight around Zuko's throat the moment he had seen the glow of the Avatar's awakening...

Well, there was a reason Zuko had caught Iroh.

Not even hyperfixation and trauma could keep his nephew from noticing too much too soon. Iroh was just glad they had lasted as long as they did, on their travels— years without reaching either pole, (years of no avatar,) and Zuko had never noticed a thing. Dragon eggs were so hardy they took very, very little maintenance.

Maybe Iroh had miscalculated. He knew his nephew well. Knew all the little ticks and signs of an impending explosion, or a sleepless night, or a day spent silent, in his own room. But the way Zuko was reacting was _promising._ The glint in his eyes, the hair-line tremble in his hands— maybe, if Iroh played his tiles correctly—

"Zuko," he started, slow and placating, "I am sorry for taking so long to tell you. But this mission is a perilous one, and the eggs of _any_ creature were never meant to be exposed to war." _Plant the seeds, to sow the tree_. A decade or more would be a blink, to a dragon. However long it took, to ease Zuko off his path and towards something more productive–

The glint in those golden eyes shifted, and _steadied_. A foolish man would have relaxed. "You're absolutely right, Uncle." Iroh was not a foolish man. "If I capture the Avatar and return home, I can use my renewed status to provide a much safer place for the dragons to hatch properly–" His expression was so _hopeful_ it hurt. Starved, with a new angle of desperation that made Iroh's insides twist horribly. "–We could return _dragons_ to our culture! Imagine, wouldn't it be nice? Azula could finally have a friend she wouldn't hurt, and father..."

That expression was practically sparkling, in its naivety.

Iroh did his best not to let his smile looked pained. Sometimes it was infinitely harder, to be gentle. (He was not– _they_ were not made to be gentle. Respect had dampened the burning itch, at the back of his throat. But he still meticulously trimmed his claws down every night, unsure how they always grew so quickly when living with Zuko compared to in the Palace.) "Zuko, It was Azulon himself who ordered the dragons killed." _They were competition. An ally he couldn't keep, an opponent he couldn't afford. _

"I— I'm sure if I can just _speak_ with father, he will allow me to...! To..."

"To what? Destroy them in front of him?" _And yourself, alongside them? _Zuko flinched as if he had been struck. Iroh tried to pretend he hadn't felt his blood boil at the sight of it. All it took, nowadays, was a practiced flourish of pouring tea and an easy smile. Tucking his hands into his sleeves to hide how they crackled at the tips, how his fingers still _flexed._ _(Maybe they weren't meant to "grow out of it". There was no growing out of their blood.)_ Iroh met Zuko's eyes evenly. "They cannot risk returning to the Fire Nation the way the world is now, Nephew." _There is nowhere for them to go. "Home" is little more than a blasted hearth, full of old bones and tasteless ashes. There is less than cinders left of their people, our people. _

It wasn't gentle reminding Zuko of their family's crimes. (Matricide, Patricide, Fratricide, Parricide, Familicide– just how much of their own blood was soaked into Fire Nation soil? How many crimes did it take, before his father had broken down? Sometimes Iroh wondered if his mother had ever seen what her chosen would become, what her species would become.) But neither would be allowing his nephew— nor the eggs— to return to a place just _waiting _to swallow them whole.

(The truth was but a pygmy-puma, maybe, but lying in wait to Zuko's hapless, clipped sparrowkeet wings? No, he was not about to let boldhold naivety and desperation be the end. Not even Zuko could sway him on this— he was not about to lose his honor to Ran and Shaw alongside the last of his family he could still salvage.)

Zuko _had_ to know this. There was no way even he could deny it. No amount of perceived familial affection, even felt in desperate yearning and hazy pain, could make Zuko forget the Dragon's Decree.

(Years of blistered hands and sobbing pleas to help, to heal— Zuko had learned quickly never to ty and keep a pet. Especially after Ursa was gone. The fountain had never been left decrepit, but the turtle ducks inside had been gone by the time Iroh returned to the capital. He did not bother asking. It would only have hurt his already bloodied nephew.)

(He hadn't known how far Azula's depravity had spread. Like mold, like fungus growing on her perfect cheekbones— and Zuko had been left breathing in the rot with every pass. Lu Ten may have left him, but in the years that followed it was _Iroh_ who had abandoned Zuko to the infection of the throne.)

His nephew was so quiet. Iroh watched him reach for the eggs again as if for comfort. their glow was still gently ebbing when he pulled them the slightest bit closer. Just enough to run the flat of his fingertips across their tops, touching each one with a slow reverence Iroh hadn't seen in him in— too long. Whatever it meant to him, he visibly calmed from it. Just the reminder that they were all there under his hands seemed to be a balm of sorts. "We can figure something out," he said. His voice, even without screaming, sounded raw. The words seemed almost to hurt him leaving his mouth and he curled in on himself as if shielding himself from a blow. "We just. We just have to catch the avatar first. The palace has lots of places to hide the eggs, and it'll be better than— better than on this ship. At least until I'm Firelord."

A thin, falsetto platitude. But Iroh had pressed enough. Too much, it seemed, judging from the sudden slope to Zuko's shoulders.

"Okay, Nephew," Iroh allowed, "Okay."

The Avatar was already long gone. His bison had vanished far into the distance already, carrying its charges. Iroh did not have to ask what Zuko wanted to do next, at the least. When was a different question. His nephew didn't look ready to actually leave Iroh's quarters yet. The pads of his fingers still lingered on the surface of the eggs, skin just barely flushing with heat at the contact.

Bright, unnatural gold eyes turned up to Iroh. He hadn't seen his nephew so visibly, openly _lost_ in three years. Not since his scar was still raw.

Iroh was already on his feet. "I'll have our course adjusted," he reassured, and just to ease the hunch to his back, "guard the eggs for me." He doubted he actually needed to ask. Not with the way Zuko looked ready to _lunge,_ lips pulled back off his teeth, when Iroh had first stumbled in on him finding his hoard. But at least this way he might feel a little less guilty of it.

Iroh closed the door firmly behind him and left down towards the bridge without hesitation.

* * *

Welcome to something i plotted like 5 years ago and only started writing on a whim last night! Great, welcome. unsure if ill continue this as a single fic or multiple, but it will have more to it. hope yall enjoyed, leave a comment!

find me on my tumblr, Leviathiane.


	2. Composure

"Sir, there is a ship docking at the port." Zhao looked up at the man waiting in front of him. Raised an eyebrow when the soldier failed to immediately elaborate. He had reports to finish filing, orders to send off, orders to read– The man's armor clicked nervously. "It's Prince Zuko and General Iroh, sir. They are requesting ship repairs."

Oh, well, wasn't that a different flavored treat?

The soldier about-faced automatically when Zhao stood, already prepared to lead the way. Good. They were learning. Zhao loved to give orders but after a while even that became a ceaseless annoyance. There was no real satisfaction in ordering around petty sailors and guards. Things were better efficient. _He_ was better efficient.

(There was less chance of disrespecting the Fire Lord, this way. Less chance of being noticed at all, hopefully, beyond for a promotion. Staying out of the dragon's maw was common sense. Yes, that was preferred.)

Zhao stepped out after the soldier onto the dock and _stared._ The port was very quiet. "...What did you say happened, exactly, for them to need repairs?"

Armor clicked as the man shuffled. How annoying. Zhao would need to curb his officers' habits of fidgeting, and soon. If Fire Lord Ozai ever visited them (and why would he, busy and high up as he was– but there was no fault in extra, extra, extra–) he would surely be irritated by the distractions of a restless idiot. The soldier scrambled after him as Zhao resolutely made for the familiar visage of the Wani. Strange, that General Iroh was not already outside to smile him down into submission. "Well, um, they–"

A shadow seemed to dart in front of them. Zhao only just managed to freeze in place, only managed to restrain a sparking twitch of heat as gold eyes flashed in the dark– _No, _He reeled internally, dizzy with it, _It's the middle of the day–_ "It was an Earth kingdom ship," The shadow of Prince Zuko snapped, and Zhao quickly contained himself before he could do something stupid like _flinch._ A vipershark could always smell the blood in the water, no matter how far or how fast you swim. "We need urgent repairs. The Wani can't sail like this."

It was embarrassing but Zhao would rather be caught shaking off his shock than to be wild-eyed with fear. When had the brat become something to straighten at? Just looking at his face was making Zhao angry. Zuko was so much smaller than him, his face haughty and spoiled at best.

(Today, he seemed to tower. He seemed to bristle, seemed to spark like a summer storm on the horizon. Zhao could smell the ozone and smoke so clearly it triggered his palms to sweat. He swore if he could force himself to meet the brat's eyes long enough, that he would see it again. Those dark, slitted pupils sliced through molten metal, like claws of a serpent struggling to climb it's way out of him—)

Zhao slowly moved his fingers until he could comfortably dig the nail of his thumb into the side of his pointer finger. Pain was easy. Pain was distracting.

"Where is General Iroh," Zhao finally asked. Despite his best efforts, facing down Zuko alone was enough to make the hair on the best of his neck raise. Not out of any misplaced fear, of course. He had nothing to fear from an outcasted hatchling. It was just a physical reaction to the barely tangible snap of electricity in the air. It was just because the entire port abruptly seemed several degrees warmer from the Prince's arrival alone. It was just the lingering shock of having the Prince materialize in front of him, teeth visibly grit as if loosening his jaw meant he would try and– "I would be honored if the General and yourself agreed to have tea with me while your ship is scouted for repairs."

_Reign it in. Calm, collected. A hint of blood and he'll know he's caught you._ All Zhao had to do was lure them from the ship. Both of them were acting too suspicious to let them just come and go. If they were off the Wani, he could send some of his men to properly interrogate the crew. Standard procedure, of course. Zhao was sure the firelord himself would support him. As much as he tried to appear otherwise, Iroh was anything but harmless– and Zuko would always be more than something spiteful and angry. Those disposed to the Dragon Throne always were. Zhao would not risk his men aboard the Wani if either of them still prowled her deck.

(The moment Zuko realized he was banished– that Fire Lord Ozai never wanted him back– well, that decree of "_mercy"_ was always just a thin rope between Zuko's teeth. Zhao did not trust it. He didn't trust Zuko or Iroh. he barely trusted– no, that was treasonous. He would not– he was not– Zhao was a loyal man to his nation.)

Zuko narrowed his eyes at him. It wasn't suspicion. There was no way the Prince had any way to positively tell Zhao was planning behind his back. Why was Zhao's heart _racing?_ "I'm not leaving the Wani," he snarled. It was more of an order than he had ever heard out of the brat. Firm, resolute. The kind of statement a leader made to dying men. The kind of statement made to someone who would die– and _soon_ if they did not start paying attention. Zhao's back was ramrod straight. "Uncle can join you for tea. I'm staying here."

"I understand," Zhao said, because there was nothing else to say. There was no begging a starving dragon for spare scraps. It was obvious with one look that Zuko was not someone who planned to be moved without force.

(The gold in his eyes seemed to _brighten_ when Zhao shifted too far forward. Like the heat of a candle too close, Zhao felt like he was swaying directly into the path of a wildfire just by standing where he was.)

Zhao steeled himself as discreetly as possible. "General Iroh And I will just have to be without your company then." It was a problem. _Zuko_ was a problem. There would be no interrogating the Wani's crew when the prince was still stalking about on board. The Princeling had a good as tucked his men under his wings.

It would have been a bold, brilliant move if Zuko had even known Zhao had planned to send spies. But if he knew Zhao was planning on trespassing the Commander was sure he'd already be smoldering. No royal ever took well to the encroachment of territory. He was determined, and maybe a little sadistic, and maybe a lot apathetic in places that would disappoint his family, but Zhao knew when even he should back off.

It was then that Iroh stepped out of the Wani, smiling blithely at Zhao. He tried not to shudder. No amount of close-lipped, calm smiles could ever make the man forget how they covered a jaw full of pointed fangs. Sometimes Zhao wondered if his tongue was forked. (Apparently, Prince Lu Ten's had been. Azula's was, too. The slightest little pronouncement, barely seen past the glint of her teeth when she smiled. But she smiled a lot. Not that anyone ever brought it up, of course. That would be a major faux pas, connecting the royal family to their inferior kin— and after already having spent so long exterminating them all...)

"Do you have any ginseng?" Iroh asked.

It never occurred to Zhao that Zuko was hiding something. Of course he was hiding. Of course Zhao already knew. Zuko was _always_ lying. It was of little consequence to Zhao, to let the Princeling pretend he was still of status and power. Better to let him think the Firelord would ever want him back than to be stuck in the range of the temper tantrum when he figured it out. _It must take a lot of energy to hide all that bruised pride; and Zuko was never the greatest of liars._

_At least, not compared to the rest of his family. _

(He never once considered that Zuko had something more than an ego to protect. Something beyond himself. There wasn't exactly much to question, in an overly territorial ex-royal. What was there to see beyond a young and hurt dragon snarling over its scraps?)

(All dragons hoarded, after all.)

Zhao stretched his smile carefully wider and invited the Dragon of the West inside for tea.

* * *

Zuko was not happy. Not in the slightest. He was practically melting a hole through the Wani's hull, superheated and pacing as he was back and forth across the deck. Zuko knew it wasn't actually helping him. But the rage was impossible to ignore– he needed to fight, needed to _burn– _but there was nothing to burn. No one around but his own men, and his… the _eggs._

A plume of fire hissed past his teeth when he snarled. He wasn't sure why, but even thinking about the eggs was making his blood boil. Not against the eggs, of course. They couldn't possibly do anything wrong, helpless and unborn as they were. Couldn't run around and cause trouble and destroy his ship and be a _threat–_

_Deep breaths. In, out. Don't exhale any more fire. You have people to protect. _

His crew had been on edge since the moment they docked. Zuko had no idea all his men seemed to hate Zhao as much as he did. They all looked remarkably wary, shooting careful looks at each other in between staring nervously at the dock. None of them had approached him. He didn't expect them to. Besides Jee, Zuko didn't find himself talking to them much. There wasn't anything to be said. They were his, after all, his to order around (to protect, to _hoard–_) and there wasn't much that needed to be said out loud for that.

_(__**His.**_ _His to protect. His crew, his eggs, his territory, his nest, his hoard...)_

Zuko pinned his glare on the first men he saw who _were-not-crew-were-not-hoard_ and continued to pace the perimeter of his territory.

_No one comes aboard._ Zuko refused it. It would take longer to repair the Wani and leave, but Zuko was willing, for once, to _wait._

Until Uncle came back, and Zuko could hover over his new charges and keep any stray soldiers from wandering too close, he was not about to let anyone he didn't know in. He didn't care if it was suspicious. _He did not care._

They wouldn't _leave_. It seemed like half the port was standing on the dock. Loitering in Zuko's blind spots, too close to his ship. It was frustratingly unsatisfying to watch them jump every time he turned on his heel back towards a new cluster of them.

(What were they _waiting_ for? Did they not have better things to do, than gawk at the banished and scarred prince? Zuko was tempted to– _no._ They were still his people. They were directly under Zhao, but by extension, they were still under _Zuko_. He would not threaten his people.)

The distinct scent of tea wafted up Zuko's nose. His head snapped up, towards the end of the dock that his Uncle and Zhao had disappeared towards, and pretended not to see how his entire crew stilled at his movements.

_They're finished. _The scent of steel and smoke, tea and singed porcelain. Fresh spices. Zuko could hear the familiar clicks of armor. _Both of them._ Zuko slowly started pacing again.

"Sir." Zuko barely halted his own feet enough to pause in front of Captain Jee. It took a startling amount of effort, but this was _his_ crew. The captain of the Wani. Jee was one of _his._ He met Jee's eyes evenly and inwardly preened when the man refused to flinch. Even after years on the Wani, some of his crew were still struggling not to twitch when Zuko stared at them. (It only hurt slightly less, to realize the same happened with Uncle. Uncle may be retired, but Zuko had had _plenty_ of lessons in underestimating an opponent.) "When will General Iroh return to the Wani?"

Zuko frowned. Could they not hear them coming? He needed to train his men better. "Here in two," he said gruffly. "Zhao is with him." There was no missing the way the crew reacted, this time. Jee had the stance and training to remain statuesque, but Zuko could see his men exchange restless looks. Clicking armor, furrowed brows.

Fire unexpectedly roared through him, simmering into a thick boil. "He will not step onto the Wani," Zuko found himself snapping. It was more comforting than he was used to, to have so many eyes on him, and yet he found himself wanting to– to– "_I will not let him."_

Jee's expression didn't change, but his weight shifted. A shuffle almost like a smile. "We do not doubt you, Prince Zuko, sir."

...It shouldn't have. It didn't make sense, but the words settled something cold inside of him. A tiny candle lit against the ice.

Zuko latched onto it as fiercely as he dared, and stormed down the towards the bow of the ship to face Zhao.

(Behind him, he vaguely registered his crew immediately dispersing. As if a flick was switched, and in the wake of Zuko's presence they all slipped to the corners of the ship. Watching, and waiting.)

(It made his shoulders uncurl. Just a little.)

"Uncle," He greeted. Zhao shifted impatiently beside him, drawing Zuko's eyes to the movement. "...Zhao. How long to repair the Wani? We need to leave immediately." The Avatar could still be close. Zuko needed to catch him while he was still within reach. He refused to lose this chance because Zhao decided to be a _hindrance._

Zhao narrowed his eyes at him. Zuko watched his expression twitch, a barely restrained expression of irritation, no doubt. The man had always acted as if simply interacting with Zuko was exhausting. Zuko would take what he could get. Anything that got on the man's nerves were well accepted. "...My men will need to board to assess the damage," He finally replied. The soldiers milling about the port (never leaving, always on the edge of Zuko's territory–) all seemed to perk up, like rats smelling trash. Zuko _hated it._ It bit at him and he barely even knew why the sight of them made him so angry. "It should be done by tomorrow morning."

_Too long._ "We have to leave tonight."

"Do you have somewhere to go?" Those eyes seemed to narrow further, somehow. Zuko's hands clenched into fists as the man stepped closer, having smelled the hesitation on him, no doubt– "...Something to _do?"_

_He does not know. He can not know._ Zuko and his crew were the only people to know about the Avatar, about the dragons; and no one had boarded all day. Zuko had made sure of it. No one got on, and besides Uncle, no one had gotten off. (He hadn't stopped his crew from leaving, of course. They so rarely got time off of the Wani. Yet none of them had so much as glanced at the gangplank, as if the port was a death sentence. Zuko had no idea what he had done, to make them so wary of him that they refused to even take time off. He had been too angry to compose himself enough to ask, and they never said a word.) "There are always new places to check."

Uncle smiled, the expression peacefully shallow. Something about that maintained ease never failed to soothe Zuko, a little. Even while dealing with an enemy on the very fringe of his territory. "We hope that perhaps one of the Air Temples will uncover new mysteries, this time around," He said blithely. "There is no harm in checking, of course. We feel enthusiastic about this one." Zuko did not smile gratefully. But hopefully, Iroh would see something soften if he had the time to look.

Zhao did not look convinced. "If you have found something new, regarding the Avatar…" Something clearly more biting was swallowed without being spoken. Zuko watched Zhao's throat constrict around it. If he wasn't so angry, so on edge, he would have smirked. Even now, despite everything, Zhao managed to control himself in Zuko's presence. It was bitterly satisfying.

_(At least I still have this.)_

The feeling shattered quickly. "I still can't spare the men to do such a task so quickly. You will have to wait until the morning. Unless you can provide me a _reason_ for your urgency?" His condescending, searching tone made Zuko want to _rage,_ want to snarl "_I just __**did**__,"_ but he was more than aware just how little that would achieve. He was not cunning, the way Azula was. Not cruelly so, not skilled in mangling words the way she so easily did. He could not soften the blows like Iroh could, until the opponent had no idea they were bleeding. He had none of the raw strength his father did, either. There was so little he could control.

He hesitated for too long. Zhao stepped forward, _closer_, his face twisting into something resembling victory. The wood of the gangplank creaked under his weight. He was standing on the Wani's gangplank. His feet firmly planted on the wood. Touching, standing, _entering Zuko's territory–_

He could control himself. He wouldn't snap. Zhao wasn't _on_ the Wani, technically, wasn't yet–

Somewhere behind Zuko, a vaguely familiar foreign warmth pushed against him. Shoved him _forward_—

_Get __**out–**_

Zuko felt rather than heard the snarl that ripped out of his throat and _surged_ forward, lunging for Zhao's throat with a mouthful of fire.

Zhao jerked back, eyes wide— Zuko faintly registered him practically leaping away from the Wani, from _Zuko—_ but it was Iroh's hand on Zuko's shoulder that stopped him a heartbeat away from assaulting the man. His hand did not restrain Zuko. It didn't grip him, didn't hurt him; it was just firm. Warmer than the faint pulse calling to him from within the Wani.

He needed it. Latched onto it desperately, frantic to ground himself. The weight of that touch was all he had to help distract him from the push and pull of the eggs, leaving him vaguely floaty and confused but clear-headed. If either of them spoke, he couldn't hear it. _What the hell was—_ Uncle squeezed his shoulder tightly. Zuko's breath whistled out of him, trailing flickering sparks with it. "I challenge you," he finally managed to say, "–to an Agni Kai. If I win, you will have our ship repaired _tonight."_ _If I win, you'll lose. You'll _leave. _I will have protected my hoard._

Zhao eyed him warily. He still looked ready to jump straight off the dock and into the ocean. Was Zuko that repulsive? "Fine. At sundown."

It was easier to breathe now. Uncle hadn't lifted his hand, but for once Zuko was glad for it. It was just distracting enough to pull him away from his head. To layer over that distant warmth with a more present one– as if Iroh had chased away a blinding swarm of fireflies.

"Don't be late," Iroh spoke for him, and gently led Zuko back on board without removing his hand.

* * *

i've been writing a LOT for this idea lately, because it was literally all that was on my mind the past month. I've barely worked on anything else. Almost added the agni kai scene here but decided it was a good place to end it and i Dont Have TIme To Edit More ajsfdhbn

also almost gave zhao his own chapter entirely. i love outsider views.

Thanks to everyone who gave suggestions for whether to make this a series or chaptered!

As always, you can find me over at my tumblr, Leviathiane


	3. Snapping jaws

Hahah welcome back sorry its been so long, hope everyone is staying safe and healthy as currently possible

As always, you can find me active on tumblr as Leviathiane

* * *

The moment Uncle shut the door to his cabin he was on him. No. Not on him– he– he hadn't moved. Iroh stood by the door, hand still on the knob. Heels against the steel. Both hands in sight, fingers loose and palms free. Close enough for his usual scent of spice, tea, and ash to press familiar and soothing against the back of his tongue– not close enough to touch him. He hadn't moved yet. He hadn't moved.

Zuko dug his bloodless fingers as deep as he dared into his knees and kept them there.

"Did you forget what happened the last time you challenged someone to an Agni Kai?" The older man asked. Despite how he had been stupid, so, so stupid, Uncle's tone was even. Low, patient, and quiet. The room remained as cool as Zuko could let it, untouched by any heat but his own– his and the eggs. Zuko refused to squeeze his eyes shut no matter how much he wanted to. Hidden under his cot, the heat of the eggs warmed the backs of his calves. It was a bare comfort. "Zuko. I am worried about how you have been acting, as of late."

So am I. "I have to win," He said instead. The words rasped out of him roughly, oddly strangled. It felt as if his tongue was too slow and heavy to form sentences. Everything feels wrong. Like my skin isn't pulling right. It was both familiar and not. It wasn't familiar in the same way he could remember Azula scratching, scraping over her shoulder blades like steel on steel rather than nails on skin. Not like the way his mother flexed her fingers, lips twisted oddly. It was him. His spirit didn't fit right, and no amount of scratching or stretching or biting would– there was nothing that could carve his body out to fit properly. It was just another way that he was different. Another reason he was a freak. It was infuriating. "He has to go." I need him to go. We need him to leave and not come back.

Zhao was more than an annoyance now. Zhao was a threat– not to Zuko, maybe, or Uncle, but he was to Zuko's– to the eggs. Those little heartbeats, hiding behind his legs. "He can't stay."

His knees creaked under the pressure. It physically hurt, trying to loosen his grip. "I don't want to be here," Zuko admitted quietly.

Unbeknownst to him, Iroh's eyes carefully flicked down. To the darkness under the bed. To the warmth he could feel radiating, even from across the room. As if an invisible fire had reached out for him. He wisely did not step closer and was grateful for how Zuko did not notice. "He won't find out anything," Iroh promised. "Not of the avatar, nor the eggs." His sharp gaze did not miss the way his nephew jerked at the mention of the Avatar. Blinking for a moment as if he could not understand why Iroh would have mentioned him at all before he was back to glaring at the floorboards. "...You have guarded our secrets well, nephew. You don't have to fight so far."

Zhao, thankfully, seemed to have had a stronger sense of where not to step than he appeared. It was normal to see men wary, but Iroh was more used to that caution being directed towards himself. He hadn't honestly considered Zhao attuned to his intelligence over his pride enough to think the man would stretch that same caution to Zuko, with none of the attributes–

Zuko was barely managing to maintain his breathing. Staying calm was always such a chore but everything seemed to become noticeably harder to control, once they had left the North Pole. "I have to," He choked out. "I will not back down."

None? Iroh thought again, carefully swallowing down a chuckle. His nephew would not be happy to hear it. Maybe I too am beginning to lose my sight...

Iroh sat down across the room, back to the door, and Zuko slowly lost the hitch in his breath as he continued to breathe.

He would win. He had no other choice.

Zhao was not allowed to remain anywhere near them.

* * *

"It will be an easy fight sir," Commented a dockhand warily.

Zhao very carefully did not yell. He did not snap, or snarl, or burn the fool to a crisp– it wasn't the lower class' fault that royal rumor failed to properly circulate. He doubted the healthy fear common in the capital would be present this far from the Fire Nation. Not to mention that Zuko was a particularly underestimated case.

No claws, no teeth. No legs to stand on when it came to bare-fanged smiles and scaled skin… and yet Zhao would not be so hasty as to dismiss the baby royal entirely. Zuko had none of the physical attributes of a true dragon. He was unclaimed by the Fire Lord himself– the mark on his face was supposed to be proof. Princess Azula would never have been able to burn the way Zuko had. No royal had ever been able to bear such a mark–– and yet Zhao had recognized the hiss in his voice for what it was– and just barely backed off with his eyebrows intact.

His nose, his cheeks, they all still burned from the singe of pure white fire.

The man flinched when Zhao stopped. "Never," He warned. Even Zhao could be kind. Could be forgiving, and generous. Agni let that be enough for his prayers to be heard, "Never let a member of the dragon throne hear you say that."

Because while none but Iroh was left to care about Zuko… He was still blooded to them. Zuko was a royal despite all his distance. Despite even the mark on his face. It seemed even an ocean's weight could not separate the scales from the dragon, whether Zhao could see them or not– and he doubted such a careless comment of weakness could be made in any other company so gracious. The connection was still there, and all of its implications.

Even when Ozai's hand itself could not prove it, could not declare that––

Zhao was a loyal man to his country.

He walked to where his men had hastily set an arena and hoped it was enough.

Zuko already stood on the opposite edge, caped and barefoot. While his sight was previously focused on the distance–– Zhao knew, even if he couldn't see it from the arena, that the Wani laid there in wait like a pit of viper-bats. He would not risk looking. The movement would be too sharp. Would draw too much of the worst kind of attention. But he knew, couldn't not know, not with how it loomed–– it snapped to Zhao the moment he stepped into the area. Dug and pinned with the same force and accuracy of a Yuyan arrow. The prince's eyes diligently followed Zhao's every move closer, unblinking in their intensity even as they turned away from each other to kneel.

Zhao heard, vaguely, the flutter of cloth to the ground as they stood. He could almost forget the feeling of the dirt under his feet and the buzzing strength of the sunlight on his bare shoulders.

Someone–– one of his own men, he was sure–– rang the gong. Beat it loud and clear and obvious and unmistakable and inevitable. Zhao bit back the overwhelming urge to scream, to rave at whatever man had just sent him to his death––

No, no. Zhao would not die. Not here. Not to Zuko. To die a death at the claws of a royal, as if he were not one of his own people? As if he were a traitor, as if he were not even Fire? He refused–

His feet shifted into stance all on their own. Zhao wished he could be half as confident.

Steam whistled out of Zuko's mouth. Rolling smoothly over his tongue and through his teeth, Easy as breathing, with none of the tight pain and rasping cry of a charring throat.

Zhao swallowed thickly. He had no time to allow for nerves to eat through his fuel. All he could have was hope that Zuko would burn through anything he could throw at Zhao before it left his hands (his feet, his mouth–– ) An angry firebender is a careless firebender. An out of control firebender. Ineffective, energy-wasting movements and weak flames–– Zuko swung down low, body arching in a way utterly removed from any firebending forms Zhao could recognize and sent a racing flood of flames straight towards him.

His body moved to part it but his mind knew to move. There was no place for pride amongst adrenaline–– not when instinct was all that managed to force his body to fling itself to the ground instead of risking being marked. It was humiliating scraping across the dirt.

Zhao risked a glance and swore the earth had bubbled where he had stood.

Lungs compressing, limbs clean through the air– Zuko less dodged Zhao's answering kick of fire than absorbed it, flames licking harmlessly over his bare skin and lighting his eyes in a whitened gold. No amount of heat managed to even scuff the prince. He was completely unharmed. Unburnt, as dragons were–

The dragon prince had flinched .

Unscathed, he stood, and he flinched .

(Zhao was not a man of the spirits but he would spare a thank you to Agni later, alone and alive in his own chambers.)

Zuko snarled as he advanced but he was hesitating . Lips peeled back, eyes glowing, the prince made a terrifying image caged in heat. He was young and already so terrifying, but he had flinched. Could he not even realize what he was? Was he so thoroughly marked that his blood itself was charred and unrecognizable, to flinch away from a flame–– Zhao took his chance. He leaped, fire burning a bonfire between his hands.

He was midair when his body began to scream its notice of Zuko shifting. Close enough to watch in definition as molten gold swallowed dark pupils to a thin line and teeth were bared in the echo of a snarl.

Zuko's chest heaved violently and Zhao was abruptly in the path of a supernova.

His stance was broken. He was disconnected. Zhao could barely redirect his own attack to push–– barely managed to fling himself back to the scorched earth in time to avoid being incinerated–– what in Agni's name was Iroh teaching the boy, to outright nearly carbonize his opponents–?! His eyes snapped to follow the peals of blue that crackled out between Zuko's teeth as his back hit the dirt, unable to tear away even as ash dug under his nails.

Panicked rage twisted the dragon prince's face. Near unrecognizable, pinched in cold fury. The fire caging the clearing burned tall and white and claimed.

You never cornered a wild animal. Just how long had Zuko been away from more civilized company? Enough for the prince to forget his royal mannerisms in favor of something far more feral. He doubted Iroh was bothering to even enforce the cub be proper, on a boat with a bunch of rejected thugs and a dragon decidedly unfit for the throne. Zhao had never seen him snap quite so strongly. Even invading, even trespassing on claimed territory, he had still stopped and listened and spoken. Here, hazy under white light and snarling... It was off-putting. More off-putting than Zuko already was, with his solid gold stare and unintended posturing–

"Zuko!" Iroh snapped out just as the dragon reared high and heated over Zhao, it's jaws parted and throat glowing behind its lying, deceivingly dull teeth.

Zuko did not exactly freeze. Zhao doubted it could fully hear the General anymore than it could see Zhao as more than a faceless, formless threat. But he was still alive to see it when its flames boiled to yellow in its hands. His exposed skin felt as though it would begin blistering before even the chance of contact.

Golden eyes blazed down at him. Iroh's order, unspoken, remained ringing in his ears. It was the barest of comforts. Twigs holding a crumbling dam. The heat brushed his face but he was not burning.

Zhao carefully pried his lips apart. They cracked and tore, dry skin wetting with blood enough for him to sluggishly move them around the shape of a surrender– no, not a surrender, the Fire Nation was not made up of weaklings who surrender, who gave up, who allowed floods and fires to be the best of them– A tactical retreat. A dead man was a useless one.

Zhao was loyal to his nation.

"I lose," He rasped. Agni, his throat was dry. Just two words were more painful than the burns running down his arms. "You win." Short, easy words. Fire was fueled by pride. Fire was made of passion, and anger, and the rage they all felt, at the dying of the light. Zuko's fire– Zuko did not feel like pride. Zhao would never admit it, that he had never felt the grip that true masters felt. That he could not feel the fire around him as naturally as his own. No affinity for the inner flame. He was taught and knew, intimately, that fire was pride and greed. That was simply what he understood, and if he, a general, chosen to protect his people, chosen to be recognized, to be claimed, understood that…

But Zhao could not see anything of pride, in the eyes that nailed through his flesh. Nothing of anger, or even hatred. Nothing but heat and brimstone and the wanting satisfaction of ashes.

(Was he not even worth it, to be acknowledged?)

Zuko finally blinked, expression slowly clearing. Time didn't move again until he did. Until the clarity returned to those eyes– until Zhao could see, with how close he was, how dark pupils widened and rounded into something falsely harmless– and the flames hissed out to silence.

(The weight of resolve, dissolved in a moment. Was that all Zhao was? Was that all he, a commander, an official, a claimed soldier of the Fire Lord himself––)

Zhao was mindful of his burns when he stood. There was dirt in his wounds. It smeared the new marks raw along his spine and burned into his front. The distraction pulled nicely when he shifted just right, stinging just sharply enough to pretend they were from a spar, or even a slip. Iroh eyed him disdainfully when Zhao held up a hand to halt a soldier carrying a jug of water to him, but frankly, the old dragon had no right to that expression. Did he think Zhao was so irredeemable and arrogant to just mindlessly bring his people into the range of that? Zhao was efficient, yes, and wholly human, but these were his men. A dead commander was useless. A dead squad was useless. He was not the F–

No, no, no. Zhao was– he was loyal. He was loyal, Agni damn them all–

"Your ship will be repaired by morning," He ordered. It wasn't satisfying enough to hear his men scramble behind him for their tools. There was nothing satisfying to be found by giving up. Still, even with Zuko still a breath away and jaw tense, he couldn't help himself, "...do allow my men on board this time."

They were Zhao's men first. Under his position, under his word. His. But they were also Zuko's men second. Zhao was no fool. The prince knew better than to swallow his own people, didn't he?

He very adamantly did not scream into his hands when those eyes finally turned away from where they burned him alive.

* * *

It was fine. It was going to be fine.

Zuko stumbled into the closed nest barefoot and trembling. He barely focused on anything beyond breathing in smoke and tea leaves and metal, and knelt to press his shaking hands to the curved tops of the eggs until their steady warmth simmered his heat down to something more manageable.

He did not notice Uncle quietly stepping around his mangled footprints, melted into the floor. He did not notice the long look the old man gave him. He did not notice when the door shut silently behind him.

The eggs pulsed, a fragile little heartbeat of heat under his calloused palms.

It's going to be fine. It's going to be okay. I will protect you.

They left before dawn. Zuko did not notice.

He didn't move until his breath had long since evened out. Even then, it was only because he had caught a whiff of something warm and spicy. Homey and familiar and just enough for Zuko to force himself away from the eggs. Leaving that warmth tore something gaping and raw in him, leaving him uncomfortably empty and cold. But this time, the smell was distracting enough to keep moving. Rubbing at his chest did little to relieve the ache. Maybe he was more bruised up than he thought, from fighting Zhao. Zuko couldn't remember most of it.

That should have been more concerning than it was. But no one, not even Uncle, had tried to stop him from going straight to his room. If no one thought he required medical aid, then he was most likely fine, wasn't he?

Zuko yanked open his door to a large bowl practically spilling over with soup. It still glistened with oil, rich and golden and swimming with fragrant spices–

"How are you feeling?" Iroh asked, and Zuko looked at the man actually holding the soup.

He blinked. It was rare Iroh had managed to sneak up on him– although Zuko was pretty sure that was more for the older man's lack of trying than a testament to his own skill– but… "How long have–" Zuko ducked his head with a cough, restraining the urge to rub at his throat. Why was his voice so hoarse? He hadn't been yelling. Hadn't even been speaking. "H-how–"

Iroh raised a brow and offered Zuko the soup. Zuko took it without another word. "It is good to see you up and about, Nephew," Uncle greeted warmly. He just smiled as Zuko tried not to flush, focusing on taking the bowl into his shaking hands. When was the last time he had eaten? It was hard to focus on anything but the soup, at the moment– the bowl swirled thickly to reveal large chunks of fish that made his mouth water, made him want to–

Jasmine scented fingers all too close to his mouth. A spoon clicked pointedly against the rim of the bowl. "Manners, Zuko,"

If he wasn't sure of it before Zuko was certain he was blushing now.

Instead of replying, he retreated into the room. It was pointless to keep standing and talking in the hallway when they had a perfectly good bed to sit on. Zuko needed to catch up on what he had missed in the hour or so he had been occupied. (...and maybe this way, Iroh wouldn't point out how Zuko's legs were shaking. Just a little. He blamed it on the strain of having held his position for so long. That could happen, right?)

He carefully balanced the soup in his lap. Iroh still had not walked in, hesitating at the doorway as if waiting. He did not move until Zuko looked back at him. The prince frowned. His Uncle was careful. Not wary, but definitely more cautious than others seemed to recognize; careful not to poke or prod too deep, careful to always be watching… but not this way. Not this controlled brand of careful, watching Zuko for a sign of– of something––

Zuko balked. "I kicked you out of your own room," he realized loudly. Had stormed in and slammed the door shut, and refused to leave. Uncle was an older man. He probably just wanted to rest after Zuko had failed to control himself around Zhao– "I– I didn't mean–"

Iroh shook his head. He pushed Zuko back down, the prince unaware he had even stood, and pointedly gestured to the forgotten soup until Zuko placed it back on his lap. But he couldn't just ignore it. "I'll go eat in my room," He muttered. Just mentioning the idea of leaving the warmth of Uncle's room made him ache like a bruise. As if he was yanking on a chain just by thinking it, choking himself in his efforts. But the look on Uncle's face, if he met his eyes and saw…

His mouth felt dry, tongue thick and slow in his mouth. The fragrant smell of fish and spices suddenly became nauseating.

Uncle smiled at him. So casually, with all the easy warmth Zuko had gotten shamefully used to. He had gotten ahead of himself. Three years and that was all it took to forget why entitlement never got him anywhere– "Even the hawk-moth cannot begrudge the cat-owl its nature," The older man soothed. Uncle heavily sat on the edge of the bed to better face him and only chuckled at the confused crease of Zuko's brow. "Now eat your soup. You must be hungry, you haven't eaten since lunch yesterday."

Zuko froze. Yesterday? Iroh shot him a look when he made to get up, soup sloshing dangerously as he jerkily moved to check outside. It softened when he redirected himself to instead take a large bite of fish, hastily sitting back down. Immediately he was reminded again how hungry he was. Bits of spice clung to his throat, but the broth was enough to get everything down smoothly. Hot, prickly, burning on the back of his tongue like the aromatic sting of air in the palace kitchens. The fish was unbelievably tender and soft, shredded as if it had been simmering for hours. It was a wonder that it was still hot enough to steam. The broth had been cooked down to something so thickly rich Zuko could almost chew it.

Iroh did not scold him this time, when he ignored the spoon and lifted the rim of the bowl to his lips.

Zuko slowly swallowed. "How long did I make you wait?" He rasped. Iroh had begun gently rolling his shoulders, back cracking quietly as he settled to meet Zuko's eyes. The prince felt his stomach twist. Still, he obediently bit into another chunk of fish at Iroh's chiding gaze. "You should have just come in," He mumbled around it. Uncle would never be someone he was– he wasn't his father. Uncle would never… Zuko shouldn't have felt so ashamed to meet the old man's gaze. "I– I wouldn't keep you from your own room." He doubted he would even be able to. Age did not stop Uncle from being a more capable fighter than Zuko was sure he would ever be.

Uncle gave him a look as if to say, wouldn't you? But Zuko knew he would not. Iroh was not a stranger or even a crewmate. Zuko would never even try to lay a finger on the last of his family alive who still felt something remotely positive for him. Even if it was out of obligation. Annoyance was still a better association than sadism, or hatred, or greed.

If Iroh saw that in Zuko's face, he didn't say. But he smiled, and when he leaned forward to touch Zuko's shoulder his hand was full and warm. "I will remember that," He promised. Every word held easy, unshakeable faith.

Zuko wasn't entirely sure what conclusion had been reached, if any, but he relaxed all the same.

Then the spoon was snatched out of his hand and brandished like the world's least threatening weapon. "Now eat your soup," Uncle ordered, "I came here with news, but I won't bother to tell you until I hear you asking Chun for seconds."

The avatar could wait. Eggs and dragons and endangered species and banishment could wait.

Just for a little longer, General Iroh wanted to take care of his nephew.


	4. The subtleties of building a nest

"So," Iroh started slowly, "We don't know where he is."

Zuko barely even looked up. Shaking his head rapidly, he hissed under his breath and tore his bed apart again. Iroh watched his nephew pace in circles before continuing the same song and dance he had been doing for the past hour; carefully tugging and piling blankets and pillows in and out of place. The eggs remained warm and buzzing contently in Iroh's lap.

"Nephew."

"_What,"_ Zuko snapped. "You said there is no news! Nothing!" Torn apart again. A pillow flopped over Iroh's foot with none of the violence Zuko flung it with. He helpfully nudged it over when his nephew snatched it back off the ground, tucking it back into the makeshift nest. "No news. Never any news. We don't know where the avatar is, because _no one_ knows where the avatar is. Were no closer than we were before. Actually, we're even _farther_ than we were before!"

"Well, this time we know the avatar is well and alive, and his goals. Surely that is worth some ease, is it not?"

It was. They both knew it. Knew that for the first time since stepping on board the Wani, their mission had any hope of being successful.

Zuko made an ugly snarling sound. The blankets and pillows hit the floor again. He didn't pick them up, stock-still and heaving for air above them. "It's worth _nothing_ if Zhao gets him first," He forced out, sparks bright on his tongue. Iroh watched him clench his fist tightly, smoking fingers flexing open and closed. The eggs flared with Zuko's temper, synched to his rapid breathing. "I just––"

Someone knocked on the door. They both froze.

"Sirs? I brought tonight's dinner since neither of you have come down. May I come in?"

Zuko lunged. Iroh made to jump to his feet but couldn't, not with the eggs in his lap. "Nephew," He whispered as quietly as possible–– only to blink as the eggs were snatched off his lap. "Nephew––?"

"Away, Put them––" Zuko hissed as he realized his hands were full. He kicked at the blankets on the floor, stuffing them messily under the bed. "Can't let anyone see them." Iroh winced when his pillow was shoved under the bed but didn't protest. He doubted Zuko would hear him anyway.

Frankly, he was just happy that when walking the line of protective instinct, Zuko jumped to hide instead of attack.

(Then again, on a ship that was His, with a crew that was His, and Iroh standing so close...)

Glaring gold. "What are you waiting for?" Zuko snapped. "Aren't you hungry?"

Like a hawk, raising its feathers. Clicking jaws and glinting fangs with none of the pain of a bite. _Bristling kit. You're hardly more than a cub yourself, to be so thralled. _Iroh smiled blithely. "Oh, famished."

He hummed as he walked to the cabin door, covering up the frantic, quiet little clicks Zuko subconsciously made under his breath.

Jee's face washed clean of anything searching the moment the door opened. But Iroh caught the twinge of worry long before the lieutenant managed to wipe it off. The shifting eyes, the tiny twitch towards the little gaps Iroh left between him and the door- _What a good Weyrmate, _he thought bemusedly. "Hello Lieutenant," Iroh greeted warmly. "Has the chef gotten tired of waiting for us?"

Shifting armor like the clicking of scales. Taloned feet on metal floor. Iroh carefully shook off the lingering fuzz of the eggs and, after a moment of thought, took the tray from the man instead of allowing him to step inside. The good lieutenant did not even twitch at the oddity.

"Not at all," Jee responded. "However, he has caught some news we thought might interest you and the prince." Flaring warmth at his back. Iroh leaned further into the space of the doorway. "Rumor has it that the avatar has been spotted on Kyoshi island."

Burning, searing-

Zuko jumped to his feet, whirling around. Iroh clamped down on every light in the room and held tight. "The avatar's on Kyoshi island?" He yelled. "As we speak?"

"As far as we've heard."

"Good. Ready the rhinos. He's not getting away from me this time." Iroh fought not to sigh as Zuko dismissed Jee, whipping around as soon as the door slid shut behind the Lieutenant. "Uncle."

_No time like the present. What go-getters, the youth–– was it only not so obnoxious as it is admirable... _"Nephew," Iroh said levelly. He did not like the look solidifying in Zuko's eyes. Young and hot-headed his nephew may have been, but he stood stubborn as steel when he made up his mind. Then again, it wasn't as if that was a trait exclusionary to Zuko himself... "I do hope our plans will go beyond "blinding charging into an enemy village" this time."

Unyielding gold. Iroh felt it linger on him even after Zuko turned away, movements so naturally _careful_ where they pulled the eggs free from their haphazardous nest under the bed that Iroh felt warm all over. "_My_ plan," He said gruffly, "Will."

_Oh, dear._

Iroh eyed his nephew. Zuko–– likely purposefully, now that he had said _that_–– remained bent by his bed, tucking and folding bed sheets this way and that until he was satisfied with how the eggs were swaddled. It was without looking back, eyes lingering on the nest, that he deigned ready to explain himself.

"I need you _here_, Uncle," Zuko said quietly. His hands tightened and loosened; they pried themselves from the sheets before he could destroy his own efforts. "I– believe in my crew. I think they are all plenty capable, and I trust them–– enough."

_But_, Iroh thought, and was all at once stuck between feeling frustrated, proud, or concerned all at once. It was not fun, but it was familiar. "You have left the eggs many times before, nephew. We both have; every time they have been fine. Not a scratch on their shells. Dragon eggs alone are more armored than even our own army, Zuko." It wasn't a lie. Someone like them–– like Azula, like Ursa–– any royal could crack them open with their hands. But it was unlikely for any sword or ax to do much more than chip at the craggy, heated exterior of the eggshell.

Unless it were a bender. Unless it were a strong enough bender, or _enough_ benders, to heat the egg enough to coax the vulnerable little lives out, and then––

Zuko's hands hissed and crackled, cloth smoldering to ash where he twisted his pant legs into his fists. "I refuse to leave them alone," He said stubbornly. "But I also refuse to let the Avatar escape again."

His nephew looked into his eyes, a strange mix of pleading and determination. Something quietly desperate, the way a starving man stared across a canyon with a meal on the other side.

"I need you to stay," Zuko said, "It has to be you."

_But my hatchling won't be the one I'm protecting,_ something in Iroh screamed. _But my nest is empty without you. I should be out there, whether you can hold your own or not._

But he could. Zuko could do more than hold his own.

It didn't change a thing.

"Eat first," Iroh compromised, and backed down.

* * *

Zuko hated the town immediately. Full of Earth Kingdom peasants, gasping villagers and screaming children ushered into wooden houses. Full of so much _green_ everywhere he looked.

_(The heat of the Fire Nation, no matter where he stepped. Tall, rich red pillars, golden painted gates, shining clean tiled floors. Every breath was heavy with summer no matter the season, heavy with spice, heavy with flames and music and life––)_

"I want the Avatar alive," he ordered firmly. His men did not respond but they did not have to. Their inner flames pulsed alongside his, unconsciously synched. It was as good a verbal response as he had hoped.

Iroh's simmered, quiet and deadly, back aboard the Wani. Four little heated heartbeats. Iroh, the eggs. Everything was a little less steady without the support of his uncle, but Zuko refused to leave his nest empty and unguarded. Not here. Not in Earth Kingdom borders. Not outside of the Fire Nation–– not even––

_No. They'd be safe if we were home. We'd all be better for it if we were home._

Task to task. If he succeeded here, in this tiny, useless little town––

Zuko pulled his komodo rhino up short. "Come out, Avatar!" He demanded, scanning the village. People were running everywhere. A mottled crowd of green and brown stragglers–– Earth Kingdom peasants slamming the doors to their houses and children peeking through windows. But not the telltale orange and yellow of the Avatar's traditional Airbender robes. Not even the blue of the Water Tribe savages.

His men saddled up behind him, armor clicking grimly. Their internal fire burned at his back. Zuko set his eyes straight forward.

He wasn't sure how it happened. One moment the avatar was in his sight–– and the next thing he knew, everything was on fire. Everything. Walls already blackening with soot, ash in his eyelashes. People were screaming.

It didn't matter. It didn't matter.

"Find him," He ordered.

_It doesn't matter._

Zuko nudged his ride deeper into the village. Once he found that flash of yellow...

A roar of heat behind him. Zuko twisted in his saddle. One of his men toppled to the floor, thrown off his rhino by a woman in green and heavy makeup. "what––?!" Two more flares. His three men hit the ground running, hands up and flames out. Their rides thundered away but that wasn't important. Zuko couldn't see any blood. The warriors seemed competent but Zuko knew his men could more than hold their own.

Fire climbed the walls. Fire scaled the rooftops. Fire reduced the grass to ash.

A woman in green sprinted towards him.

Zuko raised his palm, heat already building to a peak in his palms. The tips of his fingers, the depths of his lungs. It lingered, crackling and hot, high in his throat.

_Get away from me._

She dodged. Of course she did–– Zuko blasted her again, scowling when she just leaped over it. A tiny, underfunded, isolated village half in the dirt shouldn't have been able to produce any warriors of value! It was beyond frustrating, beyond _obnoxious_– Zuko yanked at his rhino as the woman's hands gleamed dangerously, barely avoiding his throat being gouged out by what looked like a bladed fan.

_Azula would like that weapon. Pretty and deadly; no better prize than one you win, one decorated with the blood of your enemies––_

Zuko shuddered violently, hands already swinging up off his reins and superheating the air. If the weapon didn't exist, if its wielder didn't exist, then Azula would never be able to get her hands on it. He was bound to be the future Fire Lord, it would be better for everyone if he removed further threats to his people right then and there. The fire burst violently from his palms, turned the woman's wide eyes a brilliant golden red.

Soldiers and warriors did not scream. Rulers did not regret.

Zuko watched the flames be swept aside, outlining a horribly familiar face.

_(Thank Agni.)_

"_You_––"

The snarl choked in his throat as another woman–– how many, how _many_ were there–– knocked him straight off his saddle. His flailing hands couldn't even hope to snag onto the reins in time before he hit the dirt, sparks hissing out between his clenched teeth.

His mount fled before he even stood back up. It's large feet hammered all the way out of the village, not even back towards the Wani. It was likely they would have to do and corral it back on board before they were able to leave for home.

Several smaller feet, smaller flames, settled around him.

_Agni. Why._

Zuko flipped himself up onto his feet, throwing himself into a spinning kick that rid himself of two little Earth Kingdom warriors. Sokka stood firm, fans in hand–– Zuko's eye twitched. _Why_ the Water peasant was in makeup and the women's uniform was beyond him but that didn't _matter_. None of it did. All he had to do was get rid of one more non-bending idiot, one more thing _in his way––_

Sokka hit the ground.

_Finally._

"Come out, Avatar," Zuko snarled. _I'm done with these stupid, pathetic, annoying little games._

The eggs hummed behind him. Iroh hummed behind him. The living flame of every one of his men, reluctantly _his,_ hummed in tune behind him.

The end was right in front of him. Finally. Finally, finally, finally...

"Finally," Zuko breathed, unable to stop himself, and swung up enough fire to turn a forest to ash.

He barely had a taste of it before. On the Wani, in the middle of the ocean–– Zuko had been as frugal as possible. Cold fingers, warm palms. Barely a flicker compared to now. But even then, facing an Airbender had left his flames hungry and massive. It ate away at the air the Avatar flung around it–– chasing after the wind in his wake as he bounced around the burning village. It swallowed everything left untouched.

It didn't help that the Avatar was so... _agile_. Zuko had never, of course, met any other Airbenders, and he doubted he ever would–– but this was ridiculous. Every blast of fire was avoided, neatly dodged. Everything was on fire _except_ for his target.

The heat was sweltering. Even for him. Zuko could feel the sweat on his brow evaporating away before it could even fully form. He was starting to get just a little tired.

The Avatar swooped low, ducking under his lagging fire kick to snag the discarded weapons of the prone women. _Agni, no,_ Zuko groaned internally. _Is he trying to burn down this entire village? Am I actually helping him? I thought Airbenders were pacifists!_

Turns out the Avatar didn't need to use the blades at all. One curving sweep of the fans and Zuko was thrown full force into a burning house. Charred wood snapped and splintered under his weight. He choked, coughing violently as he inhaled what felt like several handfuls of ash. _Agni damn it–– He's going to get away!_

So close. That internal flame was so close. When Zuko squeezed his eyes shut and focused he almost felt like he could reach out and grab it if he just tried hard enough. Everything around him was already so warm, so _connected,_ it would be the easiest thing to just––

Too warm. Too _hot_. So hot that it touched every one of his men, reached all the way to his Uncle, to the Wani, to his nest. To something curled up and waking, a tiny, tentative little stretch of heat and light achingly familiar.

Zuko's eyes flung open.

"They're going to hatch," He choked out, horrified. "They're––"

He scrambled to his feet. Skidding and slipping on building mounds of ash, Zuko threw himself through the ruined walls of the house and charged without looking back for the Wani.

His men halted in their tracks at the sight of him barreling back through the streets. Hands raised, weapons up and shoulders back.

"Stop!" Zuko demanded. "Put them out–– put them all out!"

"Sir?!" Someone squawked–– maybe Jin? He didn't have time to think, to _breathe_. "Sir, what do––"

They weren't moving. They weren't moving and the village was still burning, the eggs were still _waking_ so far from _home_. Zuko whipped around, eyes wild, and felt heat well up in his throat so fiercely it licked out of his mouth when he breathed. "Put every fire out," he snarled, _"This instant."_

Had to be fast. Had to be fast.

Zuko threw his arms out, opened his entire body to every bit of warmth singing to him, and clenched hold of them.

Out, out, out.

He had to be calm. You could rush a fire but you could never soothe it. Not if it's commander wasn't calm. No coaxing a child to stop screaming if you were screaming too, if you snarled and yelled and threw yourself into the storm––

_Go out, _Zuko commanded internally, and when he breathed in, and out, the flames before him sank under his fingertips.

In the lifetime of a breath, his men erupted back into fortified action around him. The flames were cold before his arms could even touch his sides again, the air heavy with ash.

The Wani quietly smoldered. Quietly, so so quietly–– and as Zuko focused, and breathed out, it became silent again.

Too quiet. He opened his eyes, shoulders slumping. The avatar was likely already long gone. He had failed again, and home vanished behind his eyelids.

The people hidden in the rubble shifted, groaning and crying out. They had no time to sit around and grieve.

"Back to the ship," He said. "Don't lose sight of them."

An empty order. They still clicked and clanked their way back to the Wani without protest, faces set and still under their helmets. Zuko appreciated the steadfastness of their inner flame if nothing else. He had a decent crew.

_We still have to round up any of the rhinos that escaped,_ he listlessly recalled, _can't leave them on the island. If the people here find them they're good as dead–– either way, we'll have lost good animals..._

Armor clicked against his chest plate. Zuko jerked his head up but none of his men were looking at him. People climbing out of the destroyed wood and stone gasped behind soot-covered hands.

Zuko followed the stares and cursed.

"Go. Go!" He yelled, shoving at his men. They all stumbled back into action, sprinting down the streets. Zuko charged as fast as he could back towards the Wani.

He hoped he made it before the Unagi did.

It curled, shrieking and massive, above the Wani. Above his _nest_, above _Iroh_, and Zuko was in the middle of some peasant ruins–– He cursed the Avatar colorfully in his head. Was he hoping to ground them there? Stop them in their tracks, keep them from pursuing him further? A brilliant tactical move, from a child, but–– What kind of pacifist used a leviathan, what kind of pacifist targeted a _nest_, gutted of even it's parents––

_"Stop!"_ Zuko screamed.

Iroh. The eggs. His nest. The last home of his Weyr, of his wayward crewmates–– He could see his uncle, stepping out into the sunlight without even a clue that he was about to either be eaten alive or capsized. Casual and lighthearted, probably humming whatever stupid song the crew loved to play on music nights––

Zuko tripped over his own feet when Iroh turned and launched a blast of flames so hot he felt it burn on his cheeks.

The Unagi screamed, whipping to the side as the flames scorched its scales. The avatar, perched on its head, yelped as the wild swing threw him skyward. Another burst of fire was all it took to send the monster ducking underwater. The avatar's brightly colored annoyance of a glider opened barely a moment later. It was all Zuko could make out of him, from their distance–– just a big smear of orange and yellow soaring over and out of sight into the saddle of whatever his flying monster was––

Armored gloves clicked around his upper arm as someone yanked him to his feet. Zuko was too busy blinking to even be embarrassed. "Ah," Jee muttered, panting beside him, "I may have forgotten that General iroh was still on board."

_I didn't... know Uncle could do that._ Not that he was going to admit that. Not that Zuko would ever admit that. "We all did," He managed. "Let's just... go."

Quickly. As far as possible.

This island is a nightmare.

"We can ask my father to send new rhinos," Zuko said, "It's better we leave."

It was both a relief and an embarrassment to have his men agree to that without hesitation.

* * *

I'll be honest, I only managed a cursory edit of this chapter. let me know if it's too fast paced and I'll do my best to fix it up ✌️

As always, you can find me over at my tumblr, Leviathiane


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